Peace survived and pulled politics up to the sun's withered throat. The clouds turned into a puff of dust and rained over the graying head of a mother. The mother now sings, the charcoal of war and the deafening screams of her daughter lull her to sleep and set her skin on fire.
"My daughter's tangles is left behind. A comb, give me a comb, my little girl needs a comb!" She said last night. Black hair was woven around her neck, the waterskin's scent had ridden up to the red edge of her eyes.
"Won't you shut up? Combing her hair won't fix anything. She's gone now." I said and she smiled, crooked and broken and semi-burnt.
"No, my daughter breathes somewhere along these strands. I know she does." Her little girl was dead. At first, a bit ago, she was buried for her freedom, and now for her homeland.
I don't understand, is the homeland now a tulip field? Or a cat with its guts split open? Maybe none. Our homeland is the wrinkled fist of a mother who punches her blown-up heart over and over and mourns the lost part of her soil.
• June 25th, 2025, Northern Tehran. For the next generation •
YOU ARE READING
The Fig Tree
PoesíaA series of a teenager's mental secretions, living through the distorting lenses of a bell jar. Inspired by Sylvia Plath.
